


Nevermind

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Drabbles, Gen, one shots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2018-12-09 10:12:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 7,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11667042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Various recollections that detail the lives of the prisoners and guards at Wentworth Correctional Facility,





	1. Miles, Linda "Smiles"

**Author's Note:**

> For this fic, I wanted to try something different. Each chapter details a different one shot to detail with a particular character. As a result, the chapters will be named after said character. So, you can skip around and read the one shots of whomever you deem fit! They're all individual stories that have no correlation. I wanted to dig a bit deeper into the characters, provide backstory, and/or a sneak peek into their lives. Additionally, all lyrics included at the beginning of each chapter belong to Leonard Cohen's "Nevermind."

> ‘ The games of luck our soldiers played. ‘ – Leonard Cohen

As part of another losing battle, Linda Miles groans at the television screen hanging in the corner of a dingy, little dive.

The announcer details the equestrian race. She’s bet on the wrong one again. Smiles can feel it in her bones. Her customary grin falters, wiped away by the panned in shot of the race track. Distraught, her elbows hit the table. An off-tune country song plays on the radio. She hates the jingle.

"Oh, fuck me," she murmurs to the off-color set placed atop the bar cupboard.

She watches the game on the tele and knows that it's another losing battle. Her bar stool squeaks in agreement.

With a groan, she buries her face into her hands.

There goes an easy thousand down the drain.

"Can I get you a drink?" The bartender asks.

His name is Felix.

He's a bear of a man with the guns to prove it. His biceps flex. She's known him for years, ever since she was old enough to come crawling into this dive. ' Old enough ' is relative; she had a fake ID, he granted her mercy.

Ten years ago, he had greying, thinning hair. He’s gone bald and stuck to the beard. It looks better on him. She tells him this when she orders one more drink.

Just one more. Whiskey in the glass numbs her just a little bit. It's not a true night out since no mixed drinks are involved.

Come the morning, she'll arrive at the prison all bleary-eyed with one hell of a headache.

She thinks it's worth it. For now, it is.

In the exchange of goods and services, she hands over a pineapple, the bill crumpled from pocketing it earlier in the day. The inmates were always so... _generous_ in their peace offerings.

“You bet on the wrong horse again, sweetheart?”

Her tight-lipped smile says plenty.

“Figured I should go up to the casino next time. Try my hand at poker again.”

Felix washes out an empty shot glass, dunking it in a basin of soapy, hot water. He dries it out. Sets it aside for the next set of under-aged girls to come slithering in.

With a wry grin, she hides her losses well. Back home, she has a mountain of debt and a pile of unpaid bills under her name.

She sips her glass. Sipping turns into chugging. Whiskey sails down her throat. Starts a fire in her belly.

Her eyes wander around the bar – to the grizzled veterans who keep their caps pulled low. To the withered divorcee who drowns her sorrows into a wine glass. She knows their faces, but not their names.

It’s a habit of hers to rename them. Bestow them with some sort of alias to accompany the story she makes up in her head.

Chuck, by the out of date jukebox, is a truck driver who takes long breaks in the night to piss on the dead in the literal sense. Cemeteries are his playground. It’s the morbid humor that keeps her upbeat.

Miles prefers it. Prefers the regulars. Knows who bets, folds, and loses.

She doesn’t win the race and feels the dread in her chest, but it’s quite alright.

There’s an inmate desperate for some exchange of information back in the hole. She’ll cover up her losses through extortion.

“One more, mate.”

During last call, her hand slaps the counter.

The liquor keeps her afloat as surely as the gambling sinks her.


	2. Westfall, Bridget

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always loved Bridget. In her psych eval with Joan, the scene was as painful as it was telling. My heart goes out to her.

> ' I live it full, I live it wide in layers of time you can't disguise. ' – Leonard Cohen

In the early morning whilst preparing for the arduous work day ahead, Bridget Westfall snaps on the silver charm bracelet that was a precious gift from her younger sister.

A younger sister that she put through college herself.

With fondness, her thumb swipes over the curve of the metal band, toying with the lucky clover that dances in place. The piece of jewelry necks her leather wristwatch. A gentle smile eases onto the blonde's mouth.

If she recalls correctly, it's the last semester of her senior year hence why the exchanges between them have been few and far in-between. Finals serve as an explanation for the recent lack of communication, but Bridget understands, acting as the positive source of encouragement.

Truth be told, she looks forward to those letters from Cheryl Westfall. Each one stacks on top of the other, buried in a shoe-box of photographs, preserving the memory of her youth no matter the turbulence along the way.

This is her morning ritual: put on the bracelet, snap on the wristwatch, and grab a hot cuppa to go. At Wentworth, she listens to the women's grievances. Takes notes. Determines who's eligible for parole. Exchanges a quick word with the Governor who dismisses her as a gadfly picking at a carcass.

As insulting as it may be, she takes no offense.

Bridget holds her head high.

After work, Bridget doesn't go directly home that evening. Nor does she make a pit-stop at the liquor store. Rather, she makes a slight detour. Heads for the gym that pushes the air from her lungs.

In the locker room, she throws on a pair of black yoga pants, sneakers, and a loose fitting tank. It contrasts her sharp blazers and sleek, fashionable taste.

During her self-defense class, Bridget leaves the bracelet on. Her instructor, a thick man called Stuart, cautions her to take it off. Stubbornly, she smiles and shakes her head. She stands on the blue mat that divides itself in thirds.

“Your best defense is to remove any loose articles from your personal being,” he chides her.

"This stays on," she replies quite adamantly.

Her eyes shine with a hardened glint to them.

He teaches her how to drive the heel of her palm into a potential attacker's nose. Throat. How to go for the eyes.

From the swift movement, her bicep flexes. Muscles shift. With her feet spread apart, she attacks. He catches Bridget by the wrist and she struggles, her heart thumping in a blind panic.

As a means to calm herself down, she breathes through her nose. Inhale, exhale. And repeat.

To this day, she finds it difficult to trust men after her experience in college. Still, she clings to hope. Remains positive through it all.

She breaks free. Spins around him, but he catches her again, his arm around her waist. Her elbow acts as a shiv when she rams it into her faux assailant. Momentarily, he stumbles. Loses his balance.

"Very good, Bridget," he commends her spirit.

Sweat beads along her temple, slithering down her cheek. Again, Stuart strikes. This time, she stumbles. Her knee hits the mat, sure to bruise come morrow. She falls down. She gets back up again.

She's a fighter, through and through.

"Why do you fight?"

Wrinkles gather on her forehead. The back of her hand hides her mouth. Wipes away saliva.

"To protect myself."

He asks her again.

"To stand up for myself."

It's therapy for what she's lost. What she's fought hard for.

Stuart doesn't offer her a helping hand. He's not the type. That isn't what he's paid for. Instead, he hands over a white towel which she gratefully accepts.

The session's over as soon as it's begun. Coated in a sheen of sweat, Bridget exhales. Shakes Stuart's hand as a testament to his work. She changes, preferring to shower in the comfort of her home.

By the time it's said and done, she drives by the liquor store. The lights are off. A shame. A bottle of wine calls her name. She parks in a bar's lot. Stares at the flickering neon sign. She doesn't delve inside. Quells her appetite by heading home to the girl she loves.

In agreement, the bracelet chimes whimsically.

 


	3. Proctor, Karen "Kaz"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite some of her questionable choices, I have a soft spot for Kaz. Her rage is something I find myself tapping into. There's so much pain behind it, behind all these women, and so this is a bit personal.

> ' The war was lost, the treaty signed. ' - Leonard Cohen

 

Before the veneration of the Red Right Hand, there had been a woman looking to heal. Karen "Kaz" Proctor routinely volunteers at a woman's shelter. When she's able, she donates old clothing and buys canned goods. It's more than alleviating a guilty conscience; it's to assure the wounded that they're not alone.

She knows.

She's been there before.

At a twenty-four hour shelter, Kaz makes herself present during the third shift. While not qualified to offer therapy, she can offer an ear to listen or a shoulder to cry on.

In a cramped room, on a rickety cot, a private conversation occurs.

“You're safe here,” Kaz promises, sitting side by side with another wounded soul. 

She drapes a threadbare sheet around a thin, shivering woman. These shelters have never been kind though they try to be.

A redhead with a bobcut and tawny eyes shudders from the cold and the harsh memory of the violence. Eyes that glittered. Eyes that became fragile glass.

There's an immeasurable pain buried in the woman's eyes accompanied by a silent yearning: a hope that Kaz has seen squashed and squandered away one too many times.

Kaz wants to wrap her arms around this woman with her fractures, her lacerations, her bruises, and her broken heart. She wants to protect this nameless ghost that will fade into the back of her mind.

"I have to go home. He'll worry."

She shrugs off the thin sheet, issuing an even quieter thank you.

"He'll kill you," Proctor says her voice hoarse yet soft.  _Begging._

Kaz Proctor can count the number of times she's begged on a single hand.

This is one of them.

Powerless to stop her, Proctor remembers seeing the woman head out the door, her blue eyes trained on that shrinking spine.

She never knew what became of her.

In frustration, her fist hits the skeleton of the cot. It squeaks. She bruises her hand. She tries to forget the ill memories of her father, of men like this woman's husband who hurt and hut and fucking  _hurt_.

How does it feel to be angry all the time?

Well, ask the one in pain.


	4. Bennett, Vera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting out fics in rapid succession, lately. Once grad school starts in a month, I know the productivity won't last. So, I hope you all enjoy it for now! :D

> ' In places deep, with roots entwined, I live the life I left behind. ' - Leonard Cohen

Bright and early, Vera Bennett helps herself to a glass of ice, cold water. Careful in the house, she avoids making a single sound, as quiet as a mouse.

To avoid the wrath of her mother, she washes out the cup with scorching hot water and a sponge. A fluffy, navy hand towel rids the mark of her secrecy.

Before Rita rises from a fitful sleep of agony incarnate, Vera has approximately forty-five minutes to herself.

At 5 AM on a dewy spring morning, the deputy governor goes out for a run. Quickly and unceremoniously, her hair's pulled back into a ponytail. Efficiency serves its purpose. She doesn't make it a point to accentuate her slim build. Instead, Vera resigns herself to a plain grey t-shirt with pants. Nothing special for a lackluster girl.

Rather than driving to the spot, she gets her full cardio workout for the day. She jogs to a quaint park with a view to kill. Her jog transforms into a run. Her lungs scream in protest, Scenery blends together. Foliage becomes a green blur. The burn in her thighs and calves procures a pleasant ache called ' productivity. '

In a pedal motion, energy fluctuates from the heel to the tips of her toes and vice versa. She doesn't feel it in to the ball of her feet. Blood plumps through her veins. Adrenaline carries her afloat, nature her sweet caffeine fix in the AM.

Neither thoughts of Wentworth nor her mother infect her mind at this time.

At the top of the hill, Vera slows down. Momentarily, she jogs in place. Pain splits her sides, albeit it's a temporary affliction. Doubles over, her hands upon her shins. She pants. Controls her breathing in and out, akin to the ebb and flow of the tide.

The cramping subsides. Vera does this every day. She knows the price and the cost of such strenuous labor. Sweat, along her temple, begins to cool. Small, soft palms cover her knees. At this point in time, she wishes that she had a sports bottle handy.

A distraction comes full force.

She looks out at the scenery: at the trees sparsely scattered, at the roads below. It gives her hope. It gives her peace of mind.

Escaping the iron regiment that is her life, this represents the only time that Vera has truly felt free.

Content – for once – with herself, she watches the sun rise. Gold bleeds into orange and mixes with purple. A bruise heals. Blood coagulates. That is the price of the Australian morning.

A rare smile creeps onto her lips with her hands upon her hips.

For once, she stands up, tall and proud.

So this is what it means to feel alive.  
  


 


	5. Ferguson, Joan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Faust is a longstanding favorite of mine and I've been meaning to reread it for my own personal pleasure. I like to think that Joan has an appreciation for the arts...

> ' This was your heart: this swarm of flies. This was your mouth: this bowl of lies. ' - Leonard Cohen

Clad in a deep red suit, Governor Joan Ferguson treats herself to an evening show. It's well-fitted, tailored to accentuate all her curves and edges. The black tie serves as the only homage to her career in corrections. Her hair's swept into a practical up-do. She parks her sleek vehicle, oozing confidence in her timed stroll. As per usual, she arrives notoriously early. The valet takes care of the rest.

The playhouse is located approximately an hour away from her tastefully modern flat. Her one of many personal phones has been switched onto silent, only destined to ring should chaos emerge within Wentworth Correctional Facility.

However, the prison ought to be fine without her hand. Tonight, she has left her disciple in charge. It's time to see if Miss Bennett fits the bill.

Outside the grand entrance, she adjusts her cuffsleeves and wipes any imaginary specs of dust from her broad shoulders. In the lobby, she exchanges a ticket for a playbill.

She passes the bar in favor of her balcony seat. She prefers to make her own cocktails to avoid a poisoning like Agamemnon's foolish consumption. The desire for a vodka can wait until the comfort of her home. Here, she has a compelling view of the audience, the orchestra, and the stage. She sees everything, playing God while hanging from above.

Solitude presents its benefits. There's no one to disappoint, the ghost of Ivan Ferguson included. Perhaps next time she'll bring her deputy along. She could serve to be a tad more cultured.

The playbill settles on her lap, having already been combed through. Tonight's venue features a special: Goethe's _Faust_ as rendered by an all-female cast.

Tragedy resonates far more than any comedy.

A scholar sells his soul in exchange for more in this philosopher's stone quest. Scratch that: _her_ soul. The complete dominion of women has its merits. Yet, the limits of human knowledge are such a bitter disappointment.

Dark eyes, inquisitive by default, examine her surroundings. Golden statues of the infamous muses grace the columns of the playhouse. She sits by herself, relishing the solitude of the near empty box. A predatory stare focuses on the center stage where the velvet, maroon curtains brush aside.

The lights dim.

A bet with God is placed. Ironically, the feat reminds Joan of Linda Miles, one of her colleagues. Colleague, however, is too gracious of a term. Staff is clinical, precise, and efficient. The woman is as untrustworthy as this gamble in Heaven.

The dog in the room bears a resemblance to the useless men she has encountered by far. Will Jackson and Matthew Fletcher are toy soldiers, easily pitted against one another. They do the rest themselves. The midnight colored dog transforms into Mephistopheles, the messenger from the Devil herself.

Mephistopheles, garbed in a red dress, mirrors Joan's taste in attire. A few drops of blood seal dear Faust's fate. A loose fist props up her chin, her finger sliding down the curvature of her pale cheek.

The integration of Robert Schumann's compilation serves as a nice touch for this modern reinvention of a classic. A plummeting aria causes her heart to drop. Here, in the dark, she allows herself to feel the music. She coasts along the rise and fall of every note, her eyes trained on Mephisto rather than the decline of our dear Dr. Faust.

Curiously, Joan steeples her fingers.

Knowledge is power; emotions are weakness.

A two-fold mantra serves its purpose.

Joan opens herself to introspection. Her thoughts linger on the inmates and the staff: two opposite ends of the playing field that remain tethered by feelings. Her nude lips twitch.

Intermission pans out. She leaves her seat to explore her surroundings. Better to be aware than to be ill-equipped should the worse case scenario occur.

The Devil's own conquers the stage. The woman with red lips and dark hair prowls across the study, the taste of Hell, and orchestrates the audience through the sailing motion of her wrists.

“Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed  
In one self place, but where we are is hell,  
And where hell is, there must we ever be.”

So croons Mephistopheles.

That smokey voice resonates with Joan.

Her jaw twitches; little else gives away herself. The mind makes a Hell of itself; the allusion is not lost upon her. Joan refuses to fall. On the contrary, she'll rise above it all.

With the hours well spent, the finale makes its approach. Faust's lover reaches ruin. She drags her fingers down her temple, thumb pressed into the underside of her jaw. Her mind wanders to Jianna.

Always Jianna and the unconventional sort.

The playbill dog-ears on the lush carpet; she will not touch it again.

Upon the end, Gretchen's demise writes itself. Such a pretty women howls and it has an intoxicating effect on her. Enraptured, Joan listens. Shifts in her seat every so slightly. Watching, waiting, watching.

"Sie ist gerichtet!"

_She is condemned!_

And so it ends.

The actresses assume a linear row and bow in unison. The audience awards them with a standing ovation. For once, Joan obeys the conventional. She claps along with them. Quietly, without lingering as shades tend to do, she marks her departure. A saint burning for her own sins.

Come tomorrow, Ferguson will pay her respects to the Devil's messenger. She orders a bouquet of roses to be sent to Mephistopheles' lead. The secretary in her office complies with the demand.

Hell's allure deserves a proper commemoration. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another favorite of mine is Milton's Paradise Lost and in Faust, there is a nod to it. "The mind can make a Heaven of Hell" or alternatively, "Myself am Hell." This is entirely self-indulgent as it's an extension of my own fancies!


	6. Jackson, Will

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been awhile since I updated this one. We never see much of his grief, in my opinion, so I wanted to explore it a bit more.

> ' I dug some graves you'll never find. ' - Leonard Cohen  
>   
> 

High again, he's made himself a victim of his own mind. Boots attract mud and ruin beneath the soles. He drags his body and his heart across the hallowed ground. On a bender, he cannot stop hurting and hurting and bloody well hurting.

Cocaine heightens the senses. They don't call it speed for nothing. His fingers are twitching, his eyes bloodshot and frantic. In the cemetery, Will Jackson reunites with his one, true love. 

Meg Jackson's tombstone stands amongst a line of marble soldiers. The memory of her governorship at Wentworth is fading: a wound that's finally begun to scar though it's never fully healed.

He stands there, his shadow overpowering the monument. A bottle dangles between his coarse, calloused fingers. Rose is a distraction from the pain, but you can never forget the one you loved the most.

Men aren't suppose to cry. That's what dear, old Pops taught him. He does it anyway. A few tears, sporadic and acidic, fall free.

He wipes them away. Sniffles as though he's had another go at the blow.

Fall nips at his cheeks that collect a bit of stubble; he'll shave at the midnight hour with the razorblade quivering in his hungover grasp.

Will collapses. Flat on his ass, he sits cross-legged and laughs to himself. If he tries hard enough, he can hear her stern voice that softened when they were alone.

"Do you remember when we first met, baby?"

_Baby, baby, baby._

His heart squeezes in his chest. With each year that passes, it gets harder to discuss the memories. He recalls being a social worker when he first caught wind of Meg. His time at Blackmoore drew to a close. With her frosty eyes, she warmed up to him.

The rest is bleeding, aching history.

"Probably shouldn't have this, but I brought it for you."

He dangles the liquor – whiskey, her favorite – by the neck. Uncorks the bottle and sips heartily for himself. Then, turns it over. Amber splashes across the grass and the dirt greedily soaks it up like litter taking in gasoline. Consider this Will Jackson reenacting an ancient rite known as libations.

"I miss you."

For Mr. Jackson, grief is private.

It's messy and it's agonizing.

So, he talks to a ghost to be his cheery self at work come morrow.

 

 


	7. Conway, Maxine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maxine never deserved to go in the way that she did. I miss her presence on the show dearly.

> ' In places deep with roots entwined. ' - Leonard Cohen

Rather than presenting herself as some ideal of beauty, Maxine Conway sticks to simplicity for the deed at hand. She wears a loose-fitting t-shirt that reveals the peeking hint of breasts and jeans that cling to the curve of her hips. Dirt taints denim, but that's what a washing machine is for. Preferring not to get the soil underneath her manicured nail's, Maxine has grown rather fond of a pair of gardening gloves.

In the backyard, she sets to work. The lush foliage and budding flowers resemble the transformation that she has always aspired for. Within her firm grasp, the hose writhes like an untamed serpent. Crisp, green leaves collect the morning dew.

Her lover's brother stands behind her, twisting his hands together in that nervous way of his. He adores her in a way that Gary never could. Sad for him that she's unable to reciprocate, longing for a man who doesn't see her beauty.

He lingers by the picket fence that she has dreamt about for years.

She lets him watch; he's harmless after all.

Switching off the hose, Maxine kneels in the fresh grass, a pleasant smile in place. No longer can she tell the difference between her fake and real ones.

With the gentleness of a mother catering to her firstborn child, she prunes the roses. Snip, snip, snip – the sheers clip. Thorns can't harm her.

Her blonde hair falls into her face, deviating from her roots: her true color that she sought to hide away from just like the wrong body that she had been born into.

Gingerly, she holds a red rose in between her fingers. She leans forward to savor its scent. Closes her eyes. Imagines a fresh bouquet in a vase for Gary after a long day in the office.

It's foolish dreaming, but she's a dreamer all the same.

Maxine moves onto the perennials, inspecting their small leaves for the noxious bite of pests. The beetles have already begun to inflict their chaos.

A ladybug sheds its wings from beneath its mottled red and black shell. The little thing lands on the crook of her gloved, purple knuckle. Quietly, she watches the small creature find safety on her hand.

Its mandibles work furiously, as though it attempts to speak with her.

She doesn't dare inflict harm. Rather, she reaches her full height and watches the ladybug fly away – high into the sky.

Maxine envies the freedom of that tiny creature, marching towards the unknown in its self-assured way.

 


	8. Birdsworth, Liz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another short chapter but brevity can hold just a great an impact as something of great length.

> ' You're of their kin; you're of their kind. ' - Leonard Cohen

Curled up on her side, mimicking the fetal position, Sophie Donaldson falls victim to the steady rise and fall of breath. From afar, her mother – Liz Birdsworth – watches her sleep.

Here in Wentworth, peace and quiet is a rare affliction. A thin, grey sheet covers her daughter's unconscious form. While it's a far off cry from childhood, Liz's mind wanders to the first time she first saw Soph.

At the memory, she brings an instinctual hand to her chest. A balled fist rests below her collarbone. There, she feels the steady thrum of her heart.

Staving off a wistful sigh, Liz closes her eyes. She can recall all the years that have transpired. She remembers laying in a hospital bed with a small bundle wrapped up in a pink blanket to accompany the equally pink face. As a first-time mother, nothing quite compares to holding your child in your arms. In those long, spanning hours, that wrinkled, screaming face of infancy knew no pain.

When she opens her eyes, she's greeted with the present: a slotted window and an iron door hides her baby girl.

“Oh, luv... I'm _so_ sorry.”

Her murmur is lost to the one who falls deeper into dreamland.

Liz wishes she could take it back. The drinking, the lying, the accident.

Afraid of ruining the moment, Liz Birdsworth watches from afar. Again. Again, she distances herself from her children in the hopes of protecting them.

She hugs herself, arms folded across her chest – tighter across her birdcage heart. Her tear stained cheeks are begging to be washed.

Regret and shame flow in waves. No amount of apologies will ease the hurt she's inflicted upon her children.

Liz can only dream (or at least, hope) that they will learn from her failures and rise above the occasion.

 


	9. Stevens, Sonia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I do love Sonia and this is my first time writing for her. I'd like to give a stab at dabbling in more fics featuring her...

> ' I was not caught though many tried; I live among you well disguised. ' - Leonard Cohen

In a proper, black cocktail dress, Sonia Stevens is a force to be reckoned with. Armed in a Tom Ford number, the outfit could be considered a work of art. The Illusion-Panel, as it's called, is a long-sleeved, silk gown. A sheer zig-zag begins at the neck and drifts down to the slit that reveals a toned thigh. The mock neckline enhances her wispy figure.

Diamonds are forever adorning her slim wrists, her slender fingers, and her throat in the guise of a choker. She reeks of Chanel No. 5 and many a scandalous affair. Her armor consists of designer labels.

Veni, vidi, gucci

With a lush, proverbial “red” carpet rolled out, leading toward some architect's mansion, Sonia exudes confidence through her graceful stride. In one hand, she wields her clutch. Stiletto heels threaten to puncture the soft fabric beneath her timely step. She embodies the resurgence of class: people hate her, envy her, want to fucking _be_ her.

Tonight, she plays the role of grieving widow to a tee.

There will be fake tears and a sniffle, her nose buried into her handkerchief for a good portion of the neon night.

In the foyer, a butler in a well-fitted suit offers her a bubbly flute of champagne to which she accepts. It's not Macallan 40, but it'll suffice for the time being. A kittenish smirk keeps her coral pink mouth up-turned on one side. At this lavished soiree, she's all airs and false pretenses. Eyes of jade trace the Neo-Romanesque columns to grace this vast space. It's a tribute to new old money trying to be new money: a commemoration for those who have inherited their wealth much like herself.

"It's all so visceral, isn't it?"

She muses aloud. A mirth infects her tone, but it betrays how she truly feels: Keith Sommers, the self-proclaimed architect, thinks too highly of himself. A little cyanide in his wine would do him just fine.

Sonia entertains the thought. Plays it as vividly as a film inside her mind when a bald, hungry man with cool, blue eyes approaches her. Devours her through a single stare. A pity for him that she's a preying mantis rather than a dame.

“You know how to put on a show,” she quips and she has him.

A line of men would happily lay at her feet just to be in her presence. Bemused, she drags a manicured nail underneath his pointed chin. It doesn't matter that he has a second wife or that her husband's dead.

Consider it some form of bewitching.

The palm of her hand rests against the curve of his back in some mock display of solidarity. She squeezes, feeling his muscles shudder from the touch. It's the psychological game she savors though physicalities add as an extended perk.

Such a smarmy grin will flay you alive.

“All for you, luv.”

He winks and she wants to rip out his eyes or make him cry; the latter in a man is most appealing. She smiles pleasantly, giving away nothing, and instead excusing herself to make her way around the manor. They know her for her industry, her rise in cosmetics, and most know to be afraid of her.

It stirs a warmth in her belly, near bestial by design. Here, her wasp-like nature shines. She shakes hands with those she'd rather spit open. As a queen of medieval times would, she sips from her Devil's cup and makes idle commentary: about the weather, about the current state of affairs, about the designer of the gown she's wearing.

Few are eager to take a glimpse at the woman within.

She leaves before most are drunken and foolish in their confessions. She hasn't the patience to deal with that debacle.

After a few glasses of champagne, she makes her exit. Winks at the man who thought himself a wolf amongst sheep, but oh – it's the other way around; Sonia's all bloody _teeth_. In the sordid exchange, she winks at him.

"We'll chat, Keith, darling!"

They won't.

Coquettishly, she bats her wrist.

Once at home, Sonia embarks upon her night-time ritual. She pours herself a glass of crisp, dry chardonnay and unzips her gown. Steps outside of one piece of her armor. Sleeve by sleeve, she draws on her silken robe. Navy fabric flutters, akin to the dark wings of a raven when she enters her bathroom. There, she pries open the medicine cabinet for a few sleeping pills. Two will aid her in the sweet promise of sleep. A proper night of beauty rest entails a decent eight hours. Her conscience, as always, remains clear when she lays herself down.

Once the pills sail down her throat and settle in her belly, she reaches for her _Fresh Rose Deep Hydration_ face cream. It's a pink cylinder container with a lavender top. Two fingers dip into the solid that teeters on the cusp of liquid. She spreads it across the bridge of her nose, spans it over her forehead, and coats her cheeks with this warpaint. Applying cold cream, she removes the layers to her intricate design.

The chemical fix eats away at the smokey eyeshadow, the charcoal beneath her eyes, and the blush to accentuate her pale cheeks. Nimble fingers reach for the terrycloth dangling from the crystal, cylindrical rack. The faucet's turned and the water comes out scorching hot. She soaks the washcloth and drags it over her face that's meant to be scrubbed raw, scrubbed bare.

From the intensity of the heat, the mirror fogs. She rubs harder, erasing one mask, but keeping another intact. With an arch of a defined brow, a jade stare meets with a distorted appearance.

She still wears that fiendish smirk in place.

As they say, the Devil's in the details.

 


	10. Smith, Bea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I miss Wentworth's flashback sequences in all honesty.

> ' A record of our little lives: the clothes we wore, our spoons, our knives. ' - Leonard Cohen

Midday indicates a woman hard at work. With her hair drawn back and tethered by a black clip, Bea Smith welcomes another into her parlor. She's a docile woman clad in a cardigan. Sandy, blonde hair falls in a helmet more befitting a soldier than a timid mom of four. Something about her will remind Bea of a meek Deputy Governor in years time.

These are the days before the going got rougher than usual between Harry and herself. She runs her salon smoothly. No one asks about the bruises, because she hides them well. Long sleeves and drug store concealer works wonders.

This is her own personal chop shop where souls come and go. Bea pats the vacant spot in front of her. Her arsenal's set up in a surgical fashion: shears, combs, a curling iron, a blow dryer, you name it. These are her weapons, her well-loved tools that bestow her with some semblance of power.

“Well, now. Have a seat,” she says.

A client sits down in the deep maroon swivel chair. Her slim, soft hands fall into her lap. Bea smiles though it's a mere quirk of her lips. With a vigorous flick of her wrist, she shakes out the bib prior to draping it over the front of this woman who shrinks down.

Something about the gesture reminds her of herself.

While here, Bea tries not to think about it. Tries not to think about the beast in her den, nursing his beer and a mean back hand back at home. Instead, she focuses on her client. Combs her fingers through the hair that's been fried with cheap box dye.

Staring at their reflections, the redhead shifts her bottom jaw. There's a picture of Debbie as a toddler tapped to the mirror along with one of her at fourteen alongside Bea. Both wear genuine smiles. Deb has given her that inner strength that she needs. That she fights for.

“Ready to try something new?”

Her eyes rake over the mess that Bea will turn into a masterpiece. With a little nod, the woman gives her consent. The dye job comes first. Snapping on a pair of rubber gloves, she guides her to the wash area. Covers the roots with dye that bears a consistency to tar black sap. She massages it into her scalp.

There is an inherent intimacy in tending to a woman's hair. Bea Smith becomes their confession; they tell her stories that they dare not tell their husbands, wives, neighbors, and friends. She's the confidante that goads them on, but buries the hatchet as soon as they walk out the door.

“So, he-- I... Well, he wants me to sign the divorce papers,” she mumbles, her voice nearly silenced by the flowing rush of water from the sink.

“Yea?” The rhetorical question acts as a response. Bea pays attention. She listens. “You're better off without him sounds.”

Guiding her back to the chair before the mirror, Bea offers a reassuring pat to the mousy woman's arm. From a bland blonde to a brunette, she's crafted a complete makeover. The dryer roars to life as she runs her comb through that recreated mane.

Snip, snip, snip go the scissors. Courtesy of a skilled hand, she concocts layers to frame that pleasant, albeit rounded face. A new identity emerges as a result. With a faint smile, Bea pats her shoulders. Shows off the finished product. The chair spins around for good measure.

“What d'ya think?”

She folds her arms, biceps flexed.

“I love it” comes out as a whisper, but the pleasure sparks within those hazel eyes. She tips Bea generously and thanks her incessantly. Out the door, she goes. The bell chimes behind her.

She'll pocket the tip and hide it in her sock drawer for Deb's college fun. She's a bright girl, full of potential.

In the aftermath, she reaches for the broom. She sweeps up the locks like ashes, ashes tumbling down.

 


	11. Stewart, Jake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awfully sorry about the delay on this one. I had put Nevermind on the back burner for awhile. Still contemplating a chapter for Allie and then, Franky as well.

> ' You turned me in; at least you tried. ' – Leonard Cohen

Life comes apart by the bloody, fucking seams. Suave, debonair Jake Stewart tries his best to keep his voodoo doll self together. Classic rock blasts over his amped out stereo.

In his garage rather than the hustle and bustle of the club, Jake nods his head to the music. The scent of oil and exhaust permeates the air. It's nauseating, but he doesn't give a fuck with his half-empty beer in hand.

He's dressed in a white t-shirt and blue jeans, the James Dean ideal.

Another bottle, empty, rests beside his toolbox. The gaudy, fluorescent lights illuminate the amber silhouette of recycled glass. Vice serves as a temporary distraction.

Tonight, Jake throws himself into his hobbies. He cranks the radio up, a Led Zeppelin number gracing his ears. He thinks he's the king of the talk, the cock of the walk. With a swagger, he persists.

He listens to “When the Levee Breaks.” How it relates to his bloody, fucked up life. Calloused fingers wind through his cropped, light brown hair. He laughs along to the lyrics and reaches for the torque wrench in his red toolbox. A few lug nuts on his sleek wonder require a little tightening.

Paranoia tosses a glance over his shoulder. Blue eyes linger on the calendar pinned to the cabinet. Nameless Sheilas in their bikinis dance in thes and. Maybe one of their names is Rio. When he purchased the piece, he didn't give a shit; all he cared about was the hot girls sprawled across every page.

Behind him, there’s no one to take him away.

Yet.

He spins cool metal in his hand, a heavy fidget spinner capable of reparation or destruction. This surface level ruse hides the scared shitless boy beneath the movie star charm. Restlessness reveals underlying nerves. His public face betrays his private one.

Heavy boots pad across concrete. Intrusive to a fault, Turk slips in. His mind's on the money and the snow white distribution meant to tear Wentworth apart.

"Now's the time to cut your losses, Jakey boy."

A bald thug with a handlebar that died alongside eighties fashion makes his way around the garage. Jake drops the tool. The sound echoes over the strum of a guitar. He wrenches his hands together, Mr. Cool-and-Debonair now lost.

“Right-o. No need to go bunta.”

And the snake begins to sing.

This is what it means to crack under pressure.

Alarmed, he holds his hands out. Waves them at the antagonistic figure in the room who imposes with his presence alone. By the root, Jake tugs at his hair. Pulls out a clump. Nails scratch the scalp. He rocks on his heels, his brows scrunched together in self-invested concern.

Sweat beads along his temple. A dampness litters the nape of his neck. He sweats, he breathes heavy.

The smoke of Ferguson's tenor implants a seed in his brain.

_There is no out, Jake._

Along with the wrench, the beer bottle follows. Shattered glass dances across the ground. He shakes his head. Watches the suds pool in a corner. This is what it means to be **fucked**.

“Time's running out,” Turk remarks. His brows shoot up. He taps his wrist, but there isn't a watch in sight.

Jake's thoughts linger on Vera. How soft she feels in his arms, how she can correct the fatal errors he's made through a few, bureaucratic lies.

He's too clean. He's pinned the bloody blame on Will.

No one can touch him.

Chuckling, he pulls himself together again. Jake extends his open arms to his dealer.

“You did a number on me. How's about a drink?”

A liquor fix nullifies high tension.

He promises to slip his way out of this one.  
  


 


	12. Fletcher, Matthew "Fletch"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Hope your holidays have been treating you well. Apologies on the delay. Life's been hectic. Suffice to say, I think I'll be wrapping this one up with one last character. Unlucky number thirteen will be the final chapter. Enjoy! xx

> ' Their graves are safe from ghosts like you. ' – Leonard Cohen

Haunted by the lives of the men and women he once served beside, Matthew Fletcher (known affectionately as Fletch by his fellow co-workers) searches for solace in a quiet place – in a **vacant** space.

On his day off, Fletch pursues tranquility. In the morning, he chokes down his amino acids. The baitbox within his quivering fist begins to rattle and shake. This hollow sound reminds him of an emptied magazine. That dream in Timor, with the gun to his temple, bubbles up to the bloody surface. With a sharp sigh, he walks along the Patterson River. The blazing sun assaults his eyes.

Still, the ghosts nip at his heels. In gruesome detail, Fletch has thought of the ways to pay his respect to the dead. A journal records the past though no amount of liquor can tune it out.

A trip away can never clear the conscience. The promise of inner peace does not come.

As of late, the canal's become a popular place for boating. He's a fishing license tucked into his worn, leather wallet (a gift from one within his platoon during his time serving the Australian Military Forces).

Fletch trudges along the bank near the dock in search of a reasonable lure. Sand crunches beneath his work boots. A lone pebble scurries along. Retreats back to the water.

The gear is simple. He settles upon a collection of sandworm. With reddened knuckles, Fletch gets to work. He opens the box where a cluster of hooks are near impossible to detangle. Stowed away inside, therein lies a collection of feathered flies.

The river stretches on, blue and pure. In the forlorn distance, there's a boater or two. Out of sight, out of mind, as it goes. A quietude settles here. He exhales deeply. Consumes the crisp air.

He ties his hook on the line. A neat, little knot. In concentration, his tongue peeks out. Fletch attaches the weights and bobbers. With his line cast, he waits quietly.

Minutes pass.

He lifts the rod, a finger on the line. Maybe that’s his first mistake.

Briefly, he dwells on Meg.

_This is personal._

_You think this is just going to disappear?!_

Meg Jackson’s rasp becomes a distant, lost cause.

How tempting it is to drink to forget. There’s an underlying current of rage he tries his best (and fails) to repress.

“You bloody mongrel,” he swears lowly underneath his breath as the line catches and inevitably snaps.

In frustration, he ruffles his hair. He isn’t drunk, but bloody hell, he wishes he were. With trembling hands, he tries again.

This time around, Fletch braces himself. His feet spread apart. He flicks his wrist. History repeats itself. There's a tug on the line. As is the cast for most art forms, he waits for the opportune moment. He reels in his catch.

By the hook, his prize dangles. Its scales glisten, its slickness bares a resemblance to grains of sand trickling past parted fingers.

A flathead begs for mercy. He shows none.

It's like a ceremony, a ritual, that engages the stifling silence of the crackling, summer air.

From his hip, he pulls out the tool of his trade.

Fletch drives the knife into the brain. With startling ease, the blade slips in. Such is the case of all flesh. The price is death. It bleeds out. He feels a shock, much like the fish laying on the rocks. Aimed just above the eye, he stuns his catch. Though he tries, there is nothing humane about this.

Blood splatters.

The maroon spray, he leaves behind.

He abandons the scene when the sun begins to set.

No amount of water can wash away his sins.

 


	13. Doyle, Francesca "Franky"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I decided to conclude these chapters with "unlucky" number thirteen (or luck, as I like to call it). The final story focuses on Franky. Admittedly, her character is a challenge for me to write!

> ‘ They’re blood to me; they’re dust to you. ' - Leonard Cohen

Reformed and born again, rehabilitation proves to be Francesca Doyle's greatest accomplishment. Getting out of the shit house, Franky – as she's otherwise known – starts her life anew. Fantasy realized, a hot girl in a hot car's gone and picked her up.

Cleaning up her act turns into her saving grace. The point continues to weigh heavily on her conscience. Anger and hope: that spells out Franky Doyle.

Back home, Gidge waits on her, holding a celebratory glass in hand. Home remains a foreign concept, a broken one. With their arms intertwined, they clink their glasses together.

White wine.

None of that highbrow champagne.

“Nothing’s changed, eh?” Franky reflects, her stare observant as she studies the warmth of Bridget's kitchen. It feels perfectly strange to be on the outside looking in.

“Your perception of what constitutes as normalcy belongs to you and you alone, Franky.”

To which, Franky grins. Swings an arm around Gidget's angular shoulders, cut in one of her sharp blazers.

“Yeah, well. Helps me keep it real, yeah?”

That cocksure attitude fools no one. Through the veil of her self-proclaimed realism, she masks her insecurities. Franky guards her heart - not the tattooed one upon her chest.

“I'm heading out,” Franky begins and immediately, concern sparks within Bridget's crisp, blue eyes.

Even now, she's a tall drink of water. A part of Franky yearns to linger, to drink in every bit of her. The other part, the more feral one, seeks catharsis.

“Just... lemme do this,” she tells Bridget before leaving the house, arm extended and hand out as a warning. She steals a kiss - brief and fleeting on the lips, but it fills her with a dull glow. Perhaps there’s a romantic in her after all.

Despite her concerns, Bridget lets her go, still nursing her glass of sauvignon blanc.

This is her redemption arc.

In a convenience store, she hides behind heavy, charcoal liner, feathered bangs, and an abundance of tattoos. With the swagger of a champion, this is all a ruse.

Before she finds what she's looking for, Doyle spies a thieving minx. A low cap hides the kid's eyes, but she knows what he's up to; it's _obvious_.

“Hey. It’s not worth it,” Franky snipes at a kid, shoving a chewie into his pocket.

Startled, he flinches. Caught red-handed, he puts the brightly colored wrapper back. With a shake of her head, she grabs the bar and what she came here for. Buying both items, she tosses the chewie his way.

“I catch you pulling that shit again and you're dead. You hear me?”

A minor threat is the only one she knows. Nodding his head, he scampers off. It's better this way.

Easier.

To a non-descript park, Franky ventures. The ticket to her freedom takes on a literal sense. She settles on a diamond kite: the pre-packaged kind that doesn’t cost much. That kind that breaks easily, but still manages to fly high.

She sports a leather jacket, her bangs caught by the wind. Her coal-rimmed eyes can’t deflect the surging heat.

_I thought the only way out was me leavin’ in a coffin._

Her boots clunk along the pavement until she meets the grass at last. Beneath her heel, the dewy blades squash down. Franky wets her lips. She bears a cheeky grin. The sun stings, but the fire within burns brighter.

With her back to the wind, Franky Doyle stands tall. A slender hand grasps the kite by the bridle point. Flicking her wrist, she lets the line out. Memories of her youth bubble to the surface - the kinder ones before her father chose to walk away.

Launching into a sprint, her ponytail sails behind her. She counts down.

“Three... two... one...”

At first, the kite staggers. It dips beneath the pressure. There's a jilted dance before it catches more air. The line threatens to tangle. Soaring high, cutting through the breeze, she lets go.

She lets out a triumphant cry and laughs so hard that tears begin to sting.

And that's what it means for a jailbird to _sing_.  
  


 


End file.
